


Deserving

by acropclis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, F/M, Fix It, Jon Snow is King in the North, Queen Daenerys, Schizophrenia, Soft Daenerys Targaryen, bran is NOT the king, bran is more human, vision of the future fix-it fic, what if bran wasn't an ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20697434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acropclis/pseuds/acropclis
Summary: Season 8 was a vision Bran had of the future.Or in which, bran isn't an asshole, he actually cares about the world, his brother, and just... things in general.A fix it. Because i'm really mad.





	1. Stormborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I know I should be updating onward and upward. but I saw a post on twitter a while back talking about how Bran could've prevented everything and it just made my blood boil so I wrote this.

Bran gasped as he was shaken awake, by none other than his older brother.  
  
"Jon," he breathed, trying to regain his bearings. Where was he? Wasn't he just in King's Landing? He was being pronounced king and—  
  
His eyes finally focused on his brother's face, his gentle features creased in worry. He looked well. Healthy. Beard well-trimmed, hair slicked back into his usual bun. And on his chest, a silvery pin that glinted under the glow of the candlelight, sending shimmers and reflections dancing along the walls of the dining hall.  
  
A three-headed dragon.  
  
"Bran, are you well, brother? Should I call a maester?"  
  
Bran took a deep breath, steadying his racing heartbeat.  
  
"No need to worry yourself, brother. I'm fine."  
  
Jon nodded, unconvinced, but went away nonetheless.  
  
'Where am I?'  
  
A better question to ask himself than where was he, was when was he.  
  
He squinted, his head throbbing with remnants of his vision. Fire and blood. Destruction. The death of King's Landing. The beginning and end of the reign of Queen Daenerys Targaryen. The Beginning of his reign.  
  
His reign.  
  
He would be king.  
  
A slight smile almost pulled at his lips, stopped when he thought of the road to get there. A descent into madness. Queenslaying. A fire that engulfed thousands.  
  
Was he really going to let the future follow its course, just to become king? Was he going to let his brother's life be so miserable, having to kill the love of his life? Was he going to let this woman, this queen who had suffered for years and had fought like a beast to get what she wanted— no, what she deserved?  
  
'Yes.' A voice sang in his heads. 'Yes, yes, yes! We will rule, and we will be king.'  
  
Bran's hand briefly seized under his oversized sleeve. He retracted it further into his robes, hoping no one saw the occurrence.  
  
'I can't let that happen to Jon.'  
  
'You saw what that woman of his is going to do! She is evil, evil, evil. She is mad! Madness courses through her veins! Her fire will kill thousands! Letting her get the throne would be handing the people over to a murderous tyrant!'  
  
'She's...' Bran's ears followed the crystalline laughs, echoing in the hall, yet somehow distinguishable from the ruckus that was going on. As if they were of another realm. He was led to the woman of the hour herself.  
  
The silver of her hair made her glow in the candlelight, like Jon's pin. As if she was made of the same material. As if she was made of steel. She looked... She looked angelic. Not of this world of mortals and men. She looked of the gods.  
  
She was braiding a small girl's hair. Bran wondered where the girl had come from. He looked around him, trying to decipher exactly where in time he had spaced out and had his... premonition.  
  
The people of Winterfell were gathered in the dining hall, all drinking and laughing like there was no tomorrow.  
  
Then it clicked. It was the Final Feast, the meal they had thrown in honor of all the fighters who would face the dead the next day, and all of those who would die honorably protecting the realm of man.  
  
Nothing had happened yet. Nothing from what he had seen had happened yet. He still had an opportunity to change things if he wanted to.  
  
But... Did he want to? Was he willing to give up the opportunity to become king?  
  
Him... Bran the Cripple. A king. How grand that would be. Unimaginable for anyone in his condition, that was certain. He wondered if a crown prince was born with his disability, would they let him live, or kill him in his crib? Probably the latter, as King's Landing was not known for its humane acts mercy, and he had known that ever since he had become aware of the world.  
  
But... Was he fit? Would he be a good king, if the future followed its course?  
  
He thought back to his courses, a majority of which he had fallen asleep, or preferred to sneak out and go climbing during. He remembered his maester assuring him that all the matters of coin would be handled; that he, as lord, shall not worry himself with such things.  
  
Bran knew his maester was lying. Bran knew that those matters, especially those matters, were to be handled by the lord of Winterfell himself and no one else. He knew he was not first in line, but his father wanted him prepared in case...  
  
He stopped that line of thinking, not wanting to reopen old wounds that never properly healed.  
  
He... would not be the best lord. Even less so, a king. He could not, in good conscience, let the future happen. The people of King's Landing deserved a good monarch. They...  
  
Another furtive look to the young woman with silvery hair and the most beautiful dimples, laughing with the little girl, giving her a hug.  
  
They deserved a monarch who was compassionate. Who cared about their subjects as deeply as they cared about their loved ones.  
  
Another furtive glance, this one towards the Queen's caramel-skinned advisor, who was looking at the other woman with a loving smile on her face.  
  
A monarch who was adored by their followers, a monarch who inspired, a monarch who did not earn what they had through birthright and titles and names, but through strength and pure leadership.  
  
He remembered during their councils and meetings, how her eyes shined with intelligence hidden, kept clutched to her chest, as if she was afraid that someone would use it against her. Sad thing was, she would be probably right in thinking so.  
How, despite her anxiety and reluctance, she would speak up and show the people in the room the extent of her skills, just how good she was at what she did.  
  
She didn't get where she was on pure luck. She knew it. Bran knew it. A lot of people didn't notice.  
  
A monarch who was cunning, a force to be reckoned with, not just on the battlefield, but in the War Room, standing above a painted table and figurines, moving small soldiers to and fro, staying steps ahead of their adversary, without them even noticing. A monarch who achieved checkmate without needless bloodshed.  
  
He remembered how, a few days ago, one of her dragons had hurt its claw, and came screeching and roaring towards Winterfell, blasting its fire through the skies. He remembered how she had risen in a panic, not in fear of her dragon harming the people, but worried about her son. The thought of him harming innocents never crossed her mind.  
  
(He later learned from Jon that, after a mishap in Meereen involving a farmer's girl and dragon fire, the Queen had spent countless hours training her dragons, to the point where she had not one, but three fully grown dragons connected to her. She was their rider, and they obeyed her to the letter.)  
  
He remembered how she had run out to the courtyard, calling her son's name. He remembered how she had the situation handled in seconds— the people calmed down, her son safe and bandaged up, and not a hair out of place.  
He remembered her laughing lightly, climbing on her son's back, and taking off into a beautiful arc, disappearing above the clouds.  
  
A monarch whose strength made their enemies shiver in fear, sweat during their nights, dreaming terrors of being ravaged by such a force. A monarch who was made of steel. A monarch who brought the storm.  
  
Stormborn.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes there's a continuation. no I don't know when I'll be posting it. follow me on tumblr i guess @acropclis  
hope y'all liked it


	2. Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so i'm actually writing a follow-up and not procrastinating. yay! i decided this story will have 4 chapters instead of two- it fits better that way. so yeah, look out for 2 new chapters coming out soon. if you wanna keep up to date with my work follow me on twitter [@acropclis](http://www.twitter.com/acropclis?s=09) and on tumblr (same handle)
> 
> so without further ado...

Bran took his brother and the Queen aside, to the War Room, and relayed to them exactly what he saw in his vision.  
  
His brother immediately blistered. He accused him of being in the same boat as Sansa, and that this was just a ploy to make the Queen lose confidence in herself or something of the sort.  
  
Bran did his best to clear the air, but it was evident that his brother was not having it.  
  
Having heard no words from the person of the hour herself, Bran turned to look at her, meaning to ask her what she thought of the whole thing.  
  
He found her staring ahead, a blank look on her face.  
  
"Daenerys?" Jon asked, and Bran knew his first instinct was to close the distance between them, but he seemed to restrain himself.  
  
The Queen snapped out of her gaze, her eyes going up to meet his brother's. She stared at him for a few seconds, then blinked, massaging her temple.  
  
"You're saying that... I'm going to become... like my father?" She seemed to have a problem articulating the word "mad", but Bran nodded nonetheless.  
  
"I'm not my father," she whispered, her head bowing, her eyes turning glassy with tears.  
  
Jon's face contorted in pain, and he did not restrain himself this time, going to hug his love.  
  
A small smile crossed Bran's face. He could sense a brilliant future for these two, just hidden beneath layers of madness and death.  
  
They just had to clear those away.  
  
The Queen clenched her jaw to keep herself from crying and looked at Bran with an intensity that would have made him shiver if he had more humanity.  
  
"What can we do?" She took a breath, her hands quickly wiping away any remnants of past tears. "What can we do to avoid this?"  
  
Bran did not know if the future was at all avoidable. But, her look of determination and his brother's eyes burning with a fire he had not seen since he was a boy ('she brought his fire back,' he thought with a smile), was all the incentive he needed to try.  
  
He owed them as much.  
  
—  
  
After debating with his brother and his sister-in-law (it was bound to happen, but he actually refrained himself from calling her that), they had decided that the Battle for the Dawn needed to undergo a few changes.  
  
First and foremost, Daenerys was to not come down from her dragon. Under no circumstances was she to swoop down below tower-level, and she was not to try to burn the Night King.  
  
That got him a curious glance from the Queen.  
  
"Why shouldn't I burn him?" She asked while Jon was jotting down the plan on a piece of parchment.  
  
They were all huddled around the War Table, pawns spread across it, a considerable advantage they did not have before since Bran knew where the dead would come from.  
  
"Because he will not burn."  
  
The Queen raised an eyebrow. "Everything burns. Well, except–" She stopped mid-sentence, her brow creasing in confusion. "Except Targaryens."  
  
Bran nodded. "That was my theory as well. But we cannot be certain, and it will not matter anyway. Arya will kill him."  
  
"Arya?" Jon and Daenerys exclaimed in sync, and Bran could not help but smile.  
  
"Yes, Arya. Brother, I need you to stay in the air too. Occupy the dead Dragon as long as you can."  
  
Pure anguish crossed the Queen's face, but she did not comment.  
  
"Do not send in the Dothraki horde, for they will be decimated by the dead," Bran continued, as he moved a few pawns back from their positions on the War Table.  
  
Daenerys nodded, moving a dragon spawn forward.  
  
"Waiting for them to advance could work, or I could go in on Dragon-back. Fire will bring visibility to the field, and which would result in fewer casualties," she stated matter-of-factly, and Jon nodded.  
  
"I will locate the Night King, and will try my best to make him fall off Viserion."  
  
"He is not Viserion." The Queen snapped. "My son is dead."  
  
Jon lightly bumped her shoulder with his, something Bran noticed he did a lot. It brought less attention to them than if they held hands, he assumed.  
  
It apparently brought the Queen comfort, who simmered down and moved another dragon spawn forward.  
  
"Lord Bran, you said that your sister will kill the Night King in the Godswood?"  
  
"That is correct, yes."  
  
"I suggest she hides nearby, then. No need to risk her life needlessly, since she is vital to the War. We position you there with double the men you had in your... vision. Some my own Unsullied. That will stall the dead while avoiding..."  
  
"Theon," Jon supplied helpfully.  
  
"Theon's death." The Queen finished, and Jon grinned.  
  
"It seems like a solid plan. You staying on your Dragon also avoids Jorah's death, if we're lucky." Jon nudged the Queen again, who smiled softly.  
  
"Also, the crypt is not going to be an ideal place to be during the battle," Jon continued, while Bran nodded. "I suggest we place a few soldiers down there, not just at the doors, but amongst the people. I'm afraid we don't have a safer place for them to be since you said the castle will be overrun."  
  
Bran nodded again. "They will have an undead Giant with them."  
  
"I will take care of him," Daenerys answered. "Spotting a giant should not be too difficult, even from a high vantage point. I will light the field on fire, for the visibility, take down the giant, and go back and help Jon with the Night King."  
  
Jon looked at her, conflicted, then his resolve hardened. Apparently, his need to protect her was overwhelmed by the need to win the War. "I alone will not be enough to take him down. We need to keep him beneath cloud-level, too. Losing sight of each other could be dangerous."  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"We make him fall off the dragon, then I will fight the dragon alone, while you take care of the army of the dead. An unmanned dragon won't be as difficult as one with a rider."  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"I will stall him as much as I can, while Arya does what she has to do. I think this will be the best course of action."  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"And then you will marry me."  
  
"Agree– what?"  
  
Bran could not help the chuckle that escaped his lips. Only Jon fucking Snow...  
  
"Daenerys. We just heard what will happen in a future where we are separate. I don't want to be separated from you. I don't want to be a few inches away from you, even. I want you by my side until death takes me a second time. I want to be by your side until death takes me a second time. I want to witness every decision you make as queen. I want to protect you while you do what you do best– ruling. I want you. Unconditionally. Always. Marry me?"  
  
The Queen was speechless. She then cleared her throat and smiled playfully.  
  
"This is not the worst way I have been proposed to, Jon Snow." Bran could still make out a choke to her words, even if she wanted to sound carefree.  
  
"Wait, you've been proposed to before? Who–"  
  
He was promptly shut up by a forceful kiss to his lips.  
  
Bran smiled again. He actually felt... happy, for his brother and his Queen. He was beginning to feel human again, the voice in his head receding to a mere whisper.  
  
'You will regret this.'  
  
'I won't,' he answered forcefully. He won't.  
  
—  
  
Bran felt fear grip his entire being, a chill going up a spine he hadn't felt in years, at the sight of the king of the dead.  
  
His blue skin, pure ice, reflected the light broadcasted by the few torches surrounding them.  
  
Bran had made the men that were supposed to protect him flee, even Theon, who had been amongst them, even against the direct orders he received from the Queen and Jon.  
  
After countless reassurances from Bran, Theon had agreed to retreat with the other men, but to stay nearby in case the Arya-plan did not work.  
  
Bran felt immensely relieved that at least, he had saved Theon, but now, sitting powerless in front of an immortal, powerful being, he didn't know if he would be able to save himself.  
  
The man— thing, Bran did not know how to qualify it, approached him slowly, and he swore he could see a smirk on that rigid face of his.  
  
Bran hadn't prayed since he was a child, but he prayed with his whole being that Arya would be able to defeat him like in his vision.  
  
When he had told her what would happen, she had been elated. She had boasted that she 'saw it coming' and that her brother 'would never have the balls to kill the fucker anyway.'  
  
Jon had winced at her choice of words, but he had laughed and had replied that he was content as long as the battle was won.  
  
Bran's senses were on high alert, because of his intense fear, or his imminent death, he did not know.  
  
He could hear the rushing of the wind around him, the rustling of the leaves of the weirwood tree. He could hear the crunching of the snow beneath the dead king's boot, and he could smell the rotten, yet clean and chilling smell he emanated. A living death. An abomination.  
  
The rustling of the leaves suddenly imperceptibly, almost unnoticeably changed, and had Bran not been paying extreme attention, he would have never caught it.  
  
Arya.  
  
In a second, it was over. He did not even see his sister administrating the killing blow, but the monster exploding, sending shards of ice flying everywhere, that he saw.  
  
The intensity of the explosion sent a few shards flying by him and cutting his face, but he did not care. They had won.  
  
The army of the dead crumbled to pieces right before his eyes.  
  
He did it.  
  
His sister turned to grin at him, her chest heaving with shuddering breaths.  
  
They won.  
  
—  
  
In the end, they had cut the casualties by half. Ser Jorah was still standing faithfully by his Queen, a few broken bones, but nothing too major.  
  
The Queen herself harbored a few cuts and bruises, an especially nasty one right above her brow, but her smile was so breathtaking, it took the attention away from the scar's angry red.  
  
She was also standing on crutches, having fallen from Drogon and bent an ankle. The Maester said she will be as good as new in a few weeks, and that she should rest, but she completely ignored his directions and attended the feast they had thrown to celebrate anyway.  
  
Bran had been worried when Jon and she were telling him the events of the battle, afterward in the War Room, but Daenerys had assured him that she had instructed Drogon not to land on the battlefield under any circumstances. Instead, the Dragon had picked her up in his claws and took her further away, letting her mount him again, and taking off, safely avoiding the Queen being swarmed by undead men.  
  
Jon himself was mostly in perfect health, save for a few bruises on his face.  
  
The plan had gone exactly as they had devised it. Lighting the field up for visibility, making the Night King fall, and making him think that they hadn't seen where he landed, so he could make his way to Bran without hesitation.  
  
Jon had continued to entertain the dead dragon, while Daenerys lit thousands upon thousands of dead men on fire.  
  
Needless to say, they were all very proud of themselves.  
  
The celebratory feast was a grand affair, a blur of heavy alcohol, good music, and loud laughter.  
  
It was lively and full of raised cups and cheers, and Bran could not have imagined it going more perfectly.  
  
"Gendry Waters, I, Daenerys Targaryen, name you Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End!"  
  
"What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon? A king... and a Queen!"  
  
"To the living! Long may we live!"  
  
Laughter. Joy.  
  
He could not have imagined it going more perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed this? it was difficult to write and i am not an expert strategist, far from it, but this is my take on season 8, and if you like it well... i'm glad. drop a comment, they make me super happy.  
again, for frequent updates and shitposts, [@acropclis](http://www.twitter.com/acropclis?s=09) on twitter.  
until next time!


	3. Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so hey, i just noticed that this chapter would've been too long if i had continued on with the battle of King's Landing and decided to cut it in half, so this story sill has 1 chapter left and one epilogue. oops.  
hope you enjoy this one, and please drop a follow on twitter? if you wanna be updated about the story and other stories i may post in the future (there's a sneak peek up right now about an AU i wanna write hehe) so follow me [here!](https://twitter.com/acropclis?s=09)
> 
> (also i just noticed how weird the formatting is in the two previous chapters, and i'm going to fix that, im so sorry)
> 
> without further ado...

"How are you feeling, my love?" Jon asked Daenerys, as he slowly approached her in the library.  
  
Jon had lost her somewhere around the afternoon. He had wanted to go take a walk near the woods or feed Ghost with her, but she had disappeared and no one could locate her.  
  
Luckily, Jon knew that Daenerys 1. Did not know her way around Winterfell at all (she had asked him for help to find her chambers a full week into her stay) and 2. The only place she knew how to get to was the Library, for some reason.  
  
One would not think that a Queen such as herself would be an avid reader, but she was. Jon found that endearing. He himself really enjoyed books and wished he had the free time to read more often. Finding out he and his future wife shared that hobby spread a warm feeling in his chest.  
  
Daenerys, who was sitting on one of the comfortable, plush sofas, her foot propped up, smiled at him drowsily.  
  
The Maester had given her Milk of the Poppy because she was in too much pain (she had bruised a few ribs when she had fallen off Drogon, and she had hidden it from him for days, until he went to hug her two days ago and she had all but screamed in agony), but apparently, it was a bit too much for her Majesty to handle.  
  
"I feel grand, Jon Snow," she smiled a bit wider, but it came out just loopy and crooked. "Husband." She winked at him, and he couldn't help but burst out into laughter.  
  
Daenerys looked confused but giggled along with him.  
  
Jon decided he really liked that version of the serious, no-nonsense woman he knew.  
  
"We are not married yet," he sighed, trying his best to sound as dramatic as possible, plopping next to her on the sofa.  
  
Daenerys stared at him. "Why not?"  
  
Jon straightened, his false dramatic behavior disappearing. "What?"  
  
"Why not? Why are we not married?"  
  
"Well–"  
  
'I don't have an answer to that. Why aren't we married?'  
  
"Can we not just get married today?" She whined, slamming her book shut and throwing it on the ground.  
  
'Her behavior would have made sober Daenerys blush in embarrassment.'  
  
"I thought you would have wanted to do it in King's Landing after you take the throne," he clarified, and she turned to look at him, with surprisingly lucid eyes.  
  
"Jon Snow, I don't care if we get married here, in the Red Keep, or in that blasted inn that smelled like death we stopped at on our way here. But I know how much a wedding in front of the Old Gods means to you, so I would like to do that."  
  
Jon was speechless. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, not knowing how to answer such a... genuine, serious response from his drugged lover.  
  
Her hazy smile came right back. "Or are you too chicken?"  
  
Needless to say, Jon Snow was no chicken.  
  
—  
  
"Would you want to rule with me, when I take King's Landing?" His wife asked him, while they were lying in bed, limbs tangled and bodies pressed so close together, their hearts were beating in sync.  
  
Jon hummed silently, not stopping his caressing of her hair. She was wrapped in her white Northern fur coat, and he couldn't help but be mesmerized at how beautiful she looked. She truly looked of the North.  
  
Her white locks, her icy violet eyes, her porcelain skin, and rosy cheeks, reminded him of an ice goddess he once read about in a children's book.  
  
She was his goddess.  
  
"I've never wanted to," he whispered, his eyes clouding in anger. "Everyone is pushing me towards a throne I don't want."  
  
"I told you telling your sister was a bad idea," Daenerys sighed, massaging her forehead. She got a headache every time she talked about Sansa Stark.  
  
Jon winced beside her. He knew she was very disappointed in him for telling his family. And, truth to be told, she was right. She was absolutely, completely right. He shouldn't have told them. All they talked to him about, now that they knew, was how he would make such an amazing King, and how the throne was rightfully his, and no one else's.  
  
As far as he was concerned, he wasn't the one who worked himself up from a sold child-bride to a powerful, respected Queen. The woman lying beside him had worked tirelessly for years to accomplish what she had and to get where she was, and he had no right to take that from her. A family name does not make a King. A claim does not make a King.  
  
"I thought... I wanted them to know. They are my family," he whispered, pain laced in his voice.  
  
His wife hugged him tighter, and he closed his eyes, relishing in the comfort. "I am so sorry, Jon."  
  
Jon's eyes snapped open, and he looked down at her, confused.  
  
"I am sorry they are treating you this way after you told them something as big as... your parentage. All they are talking about is your claim to the throne, while what you need is... is for them to tell you how you haven't changed in their eyes. How you still are their Jon Snow, their brother. I am sorry they are doing this to you. You do not deserve that."  
  
A tear escaped his eye, and Daenerys kissed his cheek lightly, nuzzling it with her nose.  
  
"Thank you," he murmured against her hair. He really had chosen the right partner to spend the rest of his life with. "I love you, Dany."  
  
"And I love you, Jon. You will always be that hardened, brooding King I met on Dragonstone. Nothing will change that."  
  
He looked down at her and saw her bright comforting smile that could light up the Long Night itself, and couldn't help but kiss her.  
  
"They're still adamant on me taking the throne," he continued after they broke apart from the breathtaking kiss they shared. 'Kissing her will never get old,' he thought.  
  
Daenerys pushed herself up on her elbows, looking him in the eye.  
  
"I'm not. Jon, I'm asking. If you don't want to, I am not going to force you, and I will not let anyone do it either." Her eyes suddenly became distant, her mind going somewhere far away. "I'm no stranger to being forced to do things against your will."  
  
Jon sighed and pulled her back down to him, continuing his light caresses on her hair. She had such soft hair.  
  
"What I want," he said, pulling her even closer to him, and giving her a light kiss on the nose. "Is to be by your side every step of the way. I want to protect you. I want to see you finally achieve your dream and take what is rightfully yours."  
  
Daenerys grinned and snuggled closer into his neck. "You sure know how to sweet talk a woman."  
  
Jon laughed.  
  
"I would want you to be King," she began, and cut him off before he could interject. "Not like that. I know you don’t want to rule, and don’t worry, I will still be the one doing that. I know a man who marries a Queen is technically a prince and has no say in the ruling. But I want you to be my King. I want you to have a say in the decisions taken.” She took a deep breath, Jon in too much awe to stop her or interrupt her. “Jon Snow, I hereby name you King in the North. I grant you a special seat on the Council, like Dorne. The seat of the North.” She smiled as she finished, and looked him in the eyes, her love and sincerity clear in them. “However, that is entirely your decision. I am not going to force you to take a position you don't want."  
  
He smiled, completely in awe of the woman he had the honor of calling his wife. She truly was something else. “It would be my honor, my Queen,” he said in the most solemn of voices, making her giggle happily. “So you're saying... you're giving the North its independence?"  
  
"I am. But not entirely," she sighed and turned to lie on her back, still using his arm as a pillow. "The North is not self-sustainable; I think we both know that. I want the North to be independent ruling-wise but still connected to the Seven Kingdoms. Partial independence, if you must. I can't be Queen over people who hate me, so I am compromising."  
  
Jon hummed again, though his heart constricted at her final words. "I'm sorry," he whispered, dropping a kiss on her hair. "But, it is not a bad idea. I would still answer to you, however."  
  
"Correct. I think it may be the best way to give the lords what they want."  
  
"What if others start demanding their independence?"  
  
Daenerys tensed beside him. He recognized her Queen persona taking over. He knew it all too well. It was what attracted him to her in the first place.  
  
"They are free to ask. It doesn't mean I will accept."  
  
Oh yes, attractive alright.  
  
A moment of silence passed before she broke it again in a small voice.  
  
"Jon?"  
  
"Yes, love?"  
  
"Would they... would they try to kill me? If they want you to have the throne so badly–"  
  
He felt his body go taut with anger. He hadn't thought about that. Bran hadn't told them anything about that.  
  
"I would slice the throat of every single one of them for even thinking about touching you," he said calmly, his voice chilling even himself.  
  
He felt her go rigid under him, and he suddenly realized how... mad, his words sounded. 'What if I'm the mad Targaryen? What if... she's scared of me?'  
  
"I have no love here," she said in the softest of voices, and Jon realized that it wasn't because of his reaction that she had tensed, it was because she truly believed people would try to kill her for him. Because they loved him. Because they wanted him on the throne.  
  
He cursed his mother and father a thousand times, for giving him his claim, for unknowingly threatening what was rightfully Dany's.  
  
"You have. You have mine. Always."  
  
—  
  
"About King's Landing," Bran began, looking back and forth between his brother and his sister in law.  
  
The three of them were back in the War Room, a week after the Wedding. Bran thought it was the ideal time to start discussing strategy for the battle since the troops were well-rested, morale was high with the King and the Queen finally tying the knot, and chatter coming from the capital that the Golden Company did not come with the promises it had made.  
  
Apparently, Cersei Lannister was disappointed to find out that no, they had not brought elephants, nor the numbers they had promised, as had reported Varys' little birds.  
  
They were still significant, added to the Crown Guard and the City Watch, but they were nothing compared to what they had. The full numbers of the Unsullied, the Dothraki, still alive and well, the Northern lords and their troops, the Free Folk, and of course, the Vale.  
  
The thing that was causing the most problems was, surprisingly, Jon's heritage, which everyone found was an incentive to take the throne for himself, except the man in question.  
  
He kept repeating that he did not want it, that he never had, and that his wife was ten times the ruler he ever would be, but some people were just not convinced, and by people, Bran meant Sansa, Tyrion, Varys, and the northerners.  
  
Arya had changed her mind about the Dragon Queen somewhere between her taking his sister on a ride on Drogon, or Arya teaching the Queen sword fighting.  
  
That was a win in Bran's book, mainly because Sansa did not an assassin on hand anymore, should she suddenly wish to kill the Queen.  
  
Daenerys sighed, and sat down, looking at the painted table in front of her with a tired frown.  
  
"You said that I went mad and ravaged the city," she said, and Bran saw Jon wince, and sit down next to his wife.  
  
"Yes, but not without reason, your Grace."  
  
Jon and Daenerys both looked at him curiously, and he sighed. That was going to be painful to explain.  
  
"When you were advancing on King's Landing with your fleet, Euron Greyjoy shot Rhaegal out of the sky with a Scorpion. He... fell in the sea."  
  
"No..." her eyes clouded over with tears, and she made no effort to wipe them or stop them from rolling down her face. "Another one of my sons dies?"  
  
Bran nodded, but he felt his heart clench in sympathy. The poor woman did not know what was coming next.  
  
"The Greyjoy fleet ambushed you. They sunk your ships, killed your Dragon, and captured Missandei."  
  
The Queen suddenly stood up, making her chair skid noisily on the floor behind her. She had pure rage on her face, her tears rolling down her cheeks, and Bran suddenly understood the saying "the wrath of the Dragon."  
  
"They captured Missandei?!" She yelled, and Jon winced once more beside her.  
  
Bran had never been more uncomfortable.  
  
"Cersei... executes her."  
  
That was enough for the Queen to storm out the room, slamming the door shut behind so loudly, a few servants that were passing by in the hallway jumped in fear.  
  
Jon looked at Bran, horrified.  
  
"You mean to tell me... One of her sons dies, Missandei dies, Jorah dies, and–" he stopped himself, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Where was I?"  
  
"You were too preoccupied with your parentage to care for her or comfort her," Bran answered matter-of-factly, which he then noticed was insensitive at best, and evil at worse, so he cleared his throat. "You had your own demons, Jon, it was understandable–"  
  
"Nothing I did was understandable. I let the love of my life suffer in silence while I did nothing. Her burning down King's Landing after Cersei Lannister killed her child and her best friend is understandable. It's what any of us would have done," he was yelling by then, his fist slamming down on the table in fury. "Why do we put her on such pedestals? Why do we expect her to take the high road, to be the moral compass always pointing north, while we all know that what she has done, any of us would do in a heartbeat if we had suffered the losses she had? Anyone that says otherwise would be liars," Jon took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. "What happened next? Did you see the aftermath of the battle?"  
  
Bran took a breath. There was no avoiding it. "You killed her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yup that's it for now, hope you liked the fluff/angst mix hehe
> 
> don't forget the [twitter](https://twitter.com/acropclis?s=09), and that's all for now folks, drop a comment if you enjoyed, they really make me super duper happy 
> 
> until next time!


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